


Lovely, dark and deep

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, low calorie angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26068246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: A recollection of Brock and Jack’s history together.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Lovely, dark and deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalika999 (kalika_999)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> For the wonderful Kali who I promised this too for a long time again 😅 
> 
> I hope you like it!

The first time Brock decided that Jack Rollins was tolerable to be around was in a safehouse during a way too fucking cold Nebraskan winter.

He was lying on his back which was starting to ache from the shitty pallets they were on to try and avoid contact with the floor. Extraction was delayed due to the unexpected shitty weather and Brock was considering his employment decisions. The rest of his team was passed out, crowded around the piece of shit stove that hardly put out any heat while Brock, like the bleeding goddamn heart he was, stayed up waiting for the OK to move to point he knew wasn't going to come that night by the way the wind moaned around the structure still miraculously upright. 

“Want me to take over?”

Rollins was quiet — exactly how Brock liked those around him to be. He didn’t fill up comm with chatter and witty-one liners. He didn’t utter a word unless necessary. Brock glanced up at him from where he was laying. Jack was a big guy and his intimidating stature was highlighted by his scar on his face. 

“Don’t you gotta get your beauty rest?” Brock sneered.

Jack seemed to mull it over and then he grinned. It was frightening in an exhilarating way, like seeing a feral dog bare its teeth. “Think you need it more than me, sir.”

Brock scoffed and tossed him the radio. “This face is perfect,” he countered. “Keep me updated.”

“Will do,” Rollins turned the radio over in his hand and looked out the window. “But pretty boys like you need your sleep, Rumlow.”

It was just snide enough not to be overtly obvious and Brock almost faltered a moment before he grabbed his sleeping bag. Jack turned his head at the rustle, clearly looking for a response. Brock held up his middle finger and Jack laughed. 

As he bed down, kicking one of the rookies away from the warmest spot, he decided that Rollins was tolerable. 

•• •• •• ••

When Brock decided he liked having Jack as his second in command they were in the middle of a major fuck up due to bad intel.

Rumlow’s instincts were torn between protecting his team — because they were his responsibility goddamnit and if anyone was gonna kill ‘em it’d be him, the stupid fucks — and trying to save the op because Pierce was gonna kill them all when he found out. The heat of the bullet grazed his neck and he swung around, the AK15 that he'd gotten off one of the men he’d killed pointed behind him. 

Jack’s face was spattered in red and it ran down his cheek, a crude parody of a tear. For a moment Brock was frozen in fear: one of his men had been injured. Then Rollins pulled the knife free of the woman’s throat and she was scrabbling at the wound as if applying pressure would save her from having an artery sliced open. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said and snapped the switchblade shut lifting his gun. 

Around them the fire fight was dying down. Brock’s hand shook a bit as he reached up, feeling the tacky blood from his own near death. His body was near vibrating with adrenaline as he continued his bloody hand up and did a hollow sounding comm check. Two injured but not fatally. The operation wasn’t a total loss even though they’d severely underestimated those who got on the wrong side of Hydra. Brock dropped the shitty gun back onto the body he’d taken it from and pulled out the flash drive. 

“Let’s get this the fuck done with,” Brock corrected.

The download was near instantaneous and wiping the mainframe was easy enough for their IT Specialist who was bleeding heavily from a flesh wound in his thigh. Brock felt shaky still, the adrenaline high starting to dull down a bit. Rollins was left to place the explosives — it was his specialty apparently and he did it well. The van was already bouncing over the pothole filled drive as the structure was reduced to rubble and dust. 

Brock finally felt like he could catch his breath once they were off the ground. The helicopter engine vibrations made all his old injuries ache as he glanced at Jack. The field medic had already patched up the injured. “Thanks,” Brock finally said when he was certain he would be heard over the blades above them and the wind roaring in the cabin.

“I’ve got you.” Jack said again, lifting his eyes slightly from where they had rested earlier and as they made eye contact Brock was pretty sure the helicopter hit some turbulence because his stomach lurched. “I’ve got your six, Rumlow.”

Typically Brock would have told him to prove it — that what all the hopeful SIC said when they wanted a permanent spot on his team. But Brock didn’t have the luxury with Rollins — he already had. 

Brock just grunted in confirmation of that and muttered, “Well it’s your fuckin’ job so I hope you do.” 

Rollins might have smiled at that but Brock wasn’t looking. He was glaring out the window well aware that he wouldn’t have been there if Jack hadn’t helped him. 

Saved him? Nah, Brock wasn’t some goddamn damsel that needed someone else to swoop in. He would’ve taken out the target if Jack hadn't been there and she was a lousy shot anyway. His fingers ran over the gauze the medic had slapped on before fleeing. 

Brock didn’t need that kind of pussy shit — it was a little cut. Give him a bottle of whiskey and by the time he woke up, most wounds had stopped bleeding. 

Rollins made no mention of his ‘heroic’ save in the mission report and Brock had that funny feeling again. That sensation that, should he have to execute Rollins, it wouldn’t be as fun to press the barrel of his gun to the back of his head. 

He tilted back in his desk chair and swore. 

Brock actually liked Jack.

•• •• •• ••

When Brock realized he trusted Jack, it was during an assassination of a foreign secretary who had gotten on Pierce’s bad side. 

She lived alone, some bougie upstate apartment in Manhattan with a dog-sized cat. The thing was fucking massive and mentioned nowhere in the briefing but luring the dappled beast into the pantry was simple as shaking a bag of treats while Rollins put the woman in the tub. 

Rumlow realized he really didn’t mind the low-key ops as much. He wasn’t a fan of slipping around women’s apartments in the dead of night but the one-and-done was better than a week in some shack with sand in his ass. 

“You took care of Whiskers?” Rollins, always the fucking riot asked as he strode in.

Brock was giving the apartment another once over, ensuring nothing was too far from place and the suicide note wouldn’t raise any flags for the analyst who would absolutely be looking into it. 

“If you got a cat that big, you may as well man up and get a dog.”

Jack laid a photograph on its face and Brock gave him his best ‘what the fuck’ face and went to right it. 

“If I was gonna off myself, I wouldn’t want to look at my mother,” Jack grabbed his wrist. “Besides, in the note it says how she felt she’d never live up the expectations around her and how much she’s disappointed her family.”

Brock felt that uncomfortable squeeze of guilt that he numbed quickly with an internal promise of booze. The right choice was never the easiest, you can’t win a war without casualties, everything has a purpose… Same old shit; it would be mediated by the same tactics. 

They left the apartment and for whatever reason, Brock asked Rollins if he wanted a drink. They went a shitty bar at three am in rural Virginia. Brock’s head ached from the flight from New York to D.C. and had three fingers of low grade watered down whiskey in rapid succession. 

Rollins had one and said he had better drinks at his place, if Brock wanted to come.

Rumlow did want to go — free drinks and company were not in high supply with his line of work. “You good?” 

They were standing on the porch at Jack’s place — a house that was far too big for Brock to ever feel comfortable in. Too many corners and crevices, no clear sight line and the woods around the place were tangled and overgrown. Of course, it was bumfuck nowhere but if someone was looking for you, it didn’t matter much where you were. 

Brock’s knew, as hunter himself, that you could sniff out your prey no matter what and even the hunters could be hunted. 

Case and point, Miss Secretary. Brock grunted and snagged the bottle. 

“Never got that mom-thing much.” Liquor loosened his tongue; it was an issue. Actually the fact he was here was an issue. “Mine bailed when I was a kid. Guess the whole maternal instinct thing is a lotta bull. Ya think she’ll miss her?”

“She’ll grieve her.” Jack capped the bottle and Brock noted him putting behind the bar. He was getting cut off. Too much talking about things he knew better than to talk about. “Mothers care even if they don’t know how to show it.”

Rumlow screwed his face up and drained the glass. “I was talking ‘bout the giant cat, Norman. Fuck, don’t turn into a sissy on me.” He got to his feet and started for the door. “See ya tomorrow Rollins.”

“Will do.”

When Brock cracked his eyes open a few short hours later with a hangover and deep seated regrets on what had unfurled the night before he had a horrible realization. He’d been intoxicated in front of Rollins, had put down all defenses and common sense and fratranized outside of operation hours. 

On base Rollins gave him a slight nod of greeting. Professional. Brock didn’t feel particularly concerned about Jack telling Pierce about their post-murder happy hours or how he’d gotten sappy over a cat. (It made quite the fuss and the doorman found it and the Secretary two hours after Rumlow and Rollins were gone). 

The disturbing thing was he hadn’t done it because he somehow deeply moved by the mission — Brock trusted Jack.

•• •• •• ••

Brock realized that that he felt safe around Jack in the bank vault.

“Killed it’s last handlers,” Pierce explained as they stood beside the man — Asset, Brock corrected himself, not human. “But I’m hopeful you’ll be a good match. You’ve got spirit.”

Brock Rumlow had spirit alright and he had common sense. And that sense was screaming at him to turn around and just put the barrel in his own mouth on this one. The Asset was still restrained to the chair, chest heaving though it was otherwise still. It’s dark eyes were fixed on the wall of safety deposit boxes. The arm glimmered darkly and the technician’s fluttered around it in the sort of way that would make Brock anxious had it been his doctors acting all flighty. 

Brock’s throat rubbed abrasively against itself as he tried to swallow the refusal. If he was going to die, it may as well have been for the cause right? “Here’s what you need to know,” Pierce pressed the file into his hands, “I’ll need that back when you’re done.”

Brock nodded dumbly and grated out the order to ‘prep’ the Asset, whatever the fuck that meant. They had wheels up in half an hour and Brock was good at absorbing a lot of information quickly but this… Pierce left and Brock went to the little side table to observe the ‘prep’ process as he scans what bits of information he could. Most of it was blacked out and in Russian. It all made horrible sense when he got caught the title: the Winter Soldier Project.

The myth was real and it was like opening the door to check for monsters you know aren’t there but there actually fucking was one just staring back at you. Probably thinking of dozens of ways to kill you and your entire team. Naked, the Soldier was terrifying but dressed in leather and Kevlar it was a nightmare come to life.

He read off the words on the sheet in a voice that successfully hid how terrified he was and on the plane told him it would be shot. It blinked and said something unintelligible through the mask that sounded enough like confirmation. Brock’s body, wired with tension, makes the long flight even longer. He won’t take his eyes off the Asset, who appeared docile but that could have easily been a ruse. 

Seeing it in battle left a sour taste in his mouth. One man’s head had been crushed by the sheer force of that fist coming down. Brock imagined a familiar face caved in and his hand twitched toward his holster. All his life he had been eliminating threats, not working beside it and hoping for the best because Brock doesn’t have a God to pray to. 

Brock didn’t sleep that night, watching the Asset who also never slept. Sleep made it faulty so, when in the field for spans less than 72 hours, it is kept awake. He almost jumped out of his skin when Rollins nudged him. 

“Christ, don’t do that.” He hissed and the Asset finally showed signs of life, turning his head just so to watch the men. 

Supposedly the Asset’s instincts were to protect its commander but track records proved that to be a temporary mindset. Brock was on borrowed time in this position more than ever. 

“Did I tell you to fucking look at me?” Brock hissed and the Asset shook its head, eyes turned forward once more. “For fucks sake Rollins, I’m on edge enough without you creepin’ around. The fuck you want?”

“You need to sleep.”

“You don’t tell me what I need to do.” Brock snapped. “Bed down.”

Jack never ignored orders so when he didn’t move Brock was at a loss. “If something happens to you, I’m in charge. If you’re in anyway incapacitated, I become acting Commander.” Jack wasn’t even snide about it. Brock would have preferred his words to have more bite to them. “You gotta stay sharp, Rumlow. I can keep an eye on the Asset.”

“No.” 

It’s easier than: I don’t want you to get hurt. 

“Fine, then we’ll keep watch together.” Jack pulled up a chair and laid his gun well within sight of the Asset and reach of both himself and Brock. “Wanna play cards?”

“We don’t have anything to play for.” 

Brock was grateful for the company. Two against one was still meager odds where the Winter Soldier was concerned but false security was comforting within itself. Jack hummed. 

“Just admit you’re a shitty player who doesn’t like to lose, Rumlow.” Jack shrugged his shoulders playfully and Brock almost wanted to smile. 

“Fuck you. IOUs, then.” 

“‘kay. If I win…” Jack drawled our seeming thoughtful as he shuffled the deck. “I get your parking spot.”

“Fuck you.” 

“Shit player, shoulda guessed.” Brock wasn’t an idiot; he was hot-headed but he wasn’t pig-headed. “C’mon big handsome guy like you scared to walk outside on base at night?”

“Are you?” Brock shot back. Spots in the parking garage were treasured for a reason. Shorter walk, no exposure to the elements, and the good elevator. “Fine. But if I win, I get your bike.”

Jack froze looking at him as if he’d just asked for both his kidneys. “For a month?”

“Permanently.” Brock leaned back in his chair and glanced at the Asset. Still unmoving. “I’m an all-in sorta guy, Jackie.”

“You’re a greedy bastard is what you are.” Jack muttered. “You’re on.”

Rumlow lost his parking spot — he should have known better or adjusted to lower stakes. Rollins was expressionless by nature, of course his poker face would have been that little smirk that gave Brock the turbulence-sensation and completely threw him off. 

So, technically, Jack played a dirty game of Poker. 

“I don’t know how you convinced me to agree to that,” he muttered as he threw his cards on the table.

Jack gathered them with a chuckle at Brock’s expense. “It’s very simple to convince a man to do anything, Rumlow.” 

Jack set the deck aside. “Oh really? Please, share your infinite wisdom Rollins.” 

“Flatter his vanity: call him handsome.”

Brock was certain his mouth hung open a bit; it wasn’t that he hadn’t caught that bit earlier, he had, but he didn’t think Jack had done it on purpose. Just one of those things guys said. Like how ladies called each other pretty and what not. It didn’t mean anything. Brock forced out an awkward sounding laugh. 

“I think it's only vanity if it’s not true and I happen to be exceptionally handsome.” 

Jack crossed his ankles, leaning the chair back on two legs. It was rickety as everything else in the shit holes they sent them but Jack seemed to know that it would hold him or at least he had the confidence to pull off them thinking he did. 

“Pretty sure it’d be insubordination to disagree with you on that sir,” Jack paused and then added, “if I did actually disagree.”

That was three times. Three times in one night that Rollins told Rumlow he thought he was handsome and for some goddamn reason it was all consuming. Brock didn’t know what to say or how even to feel. It wasn’t a gay thing — right? 

“Great minds think alike,” was Brock’s lame way of saying ‘I think you’re handsome too, Jack’. 

Jack smiled, a real smile and oh fuck if it didn’t give him oh-shit-the-chopper-is-going-down lurches. Instead of a crash landing however he got the sickening realization he hadn’t looked at the Asset once since the game started. He did so with such speed he nearly gave himself whiplash. 

The Asset, sensing his urgency, gazed back — vacant and maybe puzzled on what threat Rumlow has picked up on that it hadn’t noticed yet. 

It wasn’t until the Asset was signed back into the tech’s hands and he was making the slow trip down the shitty elevator that groaned and shuddered like the cables were going to snap, that he finally sorted out why he had lost track of himself when he meant to be ensuring the Asset did not blind side and slaughter him. 

He felt secure because Jack was there beside him. His second had willingly come to him, noticed his tension and somehow knew exactly what was needed to abate it. Unselfishly — well, Brock thought as he soaked his sneakers and socks in a slushy puddle, almost unselfishly. He wasn’t going to fight it; there was no reason to. He needed someone to trust when working with ex-soviet murderbot. 

Jack made him feel safe.

•• •• •• ••

Understanding that Brock was attracted to Jack came on two vastly different occasions.

The first was following a successful interrogation. They knew where to find the cache needed and STRIKE Charlie was mobilizing to retrieve it while Alpha was stuck cleaning up the mess they’d made. This meant getting rid of witnesses and the person who had broken down and spilled AIMs secrets. 

Brock was a simple man. No-fuss, no muss. Bullet to the back of the head, spray down the room and spray some Lysol. Wham, bam, go home and catch the game’s recap with a greasy value menu meal from the local fast food joint to fill the empty spot in stomach from the strenuous labor of torture. 

“Can I kill him?” 

Brock was trying to decide between a double cheeseburger or a bacon cheeseburger (hell, why not a double bacon cheeseburger?) and didn’t quite catch it. “What?”

“Can I kill him.” Jack repeated. “I’ll clean the room after.”

Brock thought it was strange but these were the kind of deaths of that rested heavy on his mind. He didn’t feel bad for any suffering; they were bad guys who got what was coming to them. “If you really want to.”

Brock reached for his gun after he badged them in. The man was handcuffed to the table, bloodied and battered from being convinced that giving Hydra this information was really for the best. He stopped short when he heard the tell tale click of a switchblade popping open. Brock thought about his maybe-near-death and watched with interest as Jack strode meaningfully toward the man. Naturally the guy tried to shy away but he was bound so he went to the go to everyone did: begging. 

“Please. Please I’ve told you everything I know!”

“Yes. I know.” Jack’s voice was frighteningly gentle as he knelt down. He ran the flat of the knife along the man’s sullen cheek bones and then withdrew in it a quick movement. 

The man whimpered and at first Brock didn’t know why until blood began to bead on the surface of his skin. The man’s complexion was waxy in the fluorescent lighting and the red against such fair skin was actually quite pleasing. Almost as pleasing as the way Jack caught a drop of his blood on the tip of his blade and let it run down the center grove. 

The quiet was punctuated by each sniveling breath the man drew. “I don’t have anymore information,” he managed to choke out.

“I’m aware,” Jack reminded him in a teasing voice. “Did you know when the trachea is cut, the victim does not bleed out? They drown in their own blood. It’s quiet slow, painful, and noisy. When the artery is cut however, blood supply to the brain is cut off and the victim falls unconscious. Blood loss happens extremely quickly and the victim goes into cardiac arrest because there’s not enough getting to the heart.”

The man fought against the handcuffs and looked pleading at Brock. “I-I don’t know what more you want,” he whimpered. “Please! I complied.”

“So I suppose how to kill you comes down to two options: the quick way or the fun way. Which would you prefer?” Jack glanced over his shoulder at Brock. A darkness Brock had only seen for a second when he saved his life lurked in his moss green eyes. He was giving the choice to Brock and that...exhilarating in a weird way. 

“I’ve been told I’m a pretty fun guy,” Brock said and the smile he was rewarded with made the strange tightness in his tact pants even more obvious. 

“Your wish is my command,” Jack winked at him.

It wasn’t until the last gurgling rasps died out and Brock had moved the body that he realized what it was that turned him on. 

It was Jack.

•• •• •• ••

The second time was when they had come from perimeter checks to find their team balls deep in the fist of Hydra. While Brock stood there, shoulders wet from the rain pelting outside, Jack moved with the purpose of a soldier given an order. He pulled out his sidearm, leveled it at the head of the idiot currently fucking it and pulled the trigger, spraying the rest of the squad with bits of skull, brain and blood. The others scrambled to apologize but their pleas were soon answered with gunshots. Brock unfroze as the last body hit the floor with a thud and Jack was replacing his gun. The Asset seemed to reanimate afterwards, redressing without order but docile. 

“Jack.” Brock’s mind whirled. 

There had been something undeniably hot about the way he had taken control, how he hadn’t hesitated to pull the trigger. “The op went sideways. We were lucky to get out. Right, Soldier?”

“Commander Rumlow and Agent Rollins were the only survivors.” the Asset sounded a bit hesitant, eyes flicking to Brock for permission. 

“Yeah, Soldier. That’s what happened.” 

“I’m going to dispose of the body.” 

“... Need help?”

“I have more fun when I do it myself.” 

Brock wasn’t so sure he wanted to know what that meant. He was too distracted by how hot he thought Jack was. 

•• •• •• ••

Brock realized he loved Jack at a cabin in the woods. It was nestled in a fringe of pines and oaks, private and quietly romantic, just like their relationship. The two had stepped out onto the covered porch with cups of coffee. They watched the sky turn pink before sunrays bathed the sky and thin wispy clouds with brilliant shades of gold. Jack had his free arm snaked around his waist, pulling him close. Brock’s head rested on his shoulder, the sweet smell of early morning dew and pine mingling well with the smell of woodsmoke that clung to Jack’s shirt. 

“Beautiful.” Jack commented.

Brock nodded his head. “It’s nice to watch a sunrise without being an op.” 

“I wasn’t talking about the sunrise.” 

“You’re such a fuckin’ sap,” Brock snorted but his face flushed a bit. 

“Maybe.” Jack took his arm back and stepped away.

Worried he might have offended him, Brock turned to apologize but Jack wasn’t standing there anymore. 

He was on one knee, holding out a box. An open box with a ring. 

“I know we can’t get married,” Jack began. “But I still want to make you mine.” 

They couldn’t get married and the realization of that hurt him more than expected. His throat felt raw and it wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair that they weren’t able to be together openly. But, private moments were better than none at all. Even if they had to book their trips through aliases and act like friends at work. At one point carrying the weight of a secret lover felt nice, like he was a teenager sneaking around with his crush. But that passed and all that remained was the pain. 

“Brock?” Jack looked a bit nervous. 

“Yes. I… Yes, Jack.”

Jack’s smile cut through his self pity and Brock held out his hand. It was a platinum band, not exactly a wedding band and easily explained. Jack slipped it on his ring finger on his left side: a promise band. Maybe after Insight they’d be able to be open about their relationship. That the history books would highlight all they went through. Jack stood and pulled him into a tight embrace. He didn’t seem to mind the tears soaking into his henley. 

Brock loved Jack. There were no ifs or buts about it. For a moment he thought back to all the moments that had brought them together. Good and bad and ugly, they had all culminated to this. And all there for them was the future. Brock hoped it was only good things.


End file.
